


Haunting, but not haunted

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: As in Juno is the ghost of a PI, Horror AU, M/M, Modern Setting, Writing Prompt, and Nureyev is making his afterlife hell, but in a fun way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8237675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: Nureyev rents an apartment while he's casing his next target; little does he know that the apartment is haunted by the ghost of a long dead detective





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Linisodd sent a whole bunch of prompts my way, but the one that stuck out most was a horror story AU.

There are certain menial details that most don’t take into consideration when they envision the glamorous life of a master thief. Usually daydreams involve daring rooftop chases and luxurious mansions filled with priceless artifacts, usually while one is dressed in a velvet robe of some sort.

Little thought is ever given to the effort needed to _plan_ a successful endeavor, to say nothing of the drudgery.

For example, when one intends to steal a priceless death mask from the head of a criminal family, one does not simply drive up to the family’s stronghold, sneak in wearing a catsuit, and waltz back out again with the prize. First there must be research. Some of it can be managed on a standard computer, but those details are painfully trite: In this case, the location of the Kanagawa homestead. It’s a luxurious mansion that just begs for the aforementioned catsuit and waltzing. But a simple address isn’t enough information to build a heist upon, though it does provide a place to begin.

The next step is to establish a base of operations, a safe house from which I can safely case the Kanagawa residence.  My house of choice: a cozy little mixed-use building that stretches the definition of quaint nearly to its breaking point. The foundation is crumbling, the windows warped, and the paint is so thick with lead that it nearly glitters—and most importantly, the fourth floor office has a perfect view of the Kanagawa house.

“You pay rent at the beginning of the month,” the landlady tells me as she passes me the keys. She’s an eccentric young woman whose thick Jersey accent tends toward shrill when she gets excited-- which is often. “I don’t do checks anymore, because of the bouncing. It’s gotta be in cash, and it’s gotta be upfront. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Certainly not.” I flash a charming smile. “Though I am somewhat concerned about the neighbors. I understand there’s a criminal family in the vicinity.”

Her stare goes flat. “Look, if you don’t like the neighborhood, you can just go somewhere else.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Besides, we don’t get no problems down here. Mister Steel won’t stand for no funny business.”

I quirk an eyebrow. Her surname isn’t Steel. “A… friend of yours?”

There’s an odd look in her eyes when she replies. “Yeah, you could say that.”

I’m familiar with the name; before I signed the lease, I extended my research to this building. It's unlikely the Kanagawas would waste their attention on such a decrepit property, but one can never be too careful. In the nineteen-thirties, a man by the name of Juno Steel lived and worked and eventually expired in the fourth floor office. Perhaps Rita’s associate is a relative of his.

Mister Steel’s office—now mine—is a tiny one. The bedroom is smaller than the closet in my last hotel, and the bathroom could pass for a leaky air duct in insufficient lighting. The front door is made of cracked, frosted glass that offers neither security nor privacy. The tiger-striped floor boards date back to the turn of the century, and their loud creaks seem to agree. The furnishings look to be nearly as old; the antique desk and chair are so ancient that they might have belonged to Steel himself, and I would rather not guess as to the age of the bed.

I’ve had worse, though not by much.

The strangeness begins almost immediately. Doors creak open when they should be shut and slam when I leave them open. The contents of my admittedly overstuffed pockets escape their prison and lie scattered all over the floor. Floorboards creak across the room while I’m poring over police reports and blueprints. Even when there’s silence, I can feel eyes on the back of my neck as I work. An ominous presence watches me from the shadows of my bedroom when I try to sleep.

On my first night in the office, I set my cologne in the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. In the morning, it's gone. After nearly an hour’s search, I find it sitting in front of the frosted glass door. It leaves me uneasy.

Naturally, my first assumption is the Kanagawas or my own employer, but there’s no one there. I search the office top to bottom for intruders, for wires, for bugs, but I find absolutely nothing. I am, according to all evidence, alone.

I perform the same search the next morning, when my cologne has once again vanished from the medicine cabinet and reappeared under the bed, but still nobody’s there. It happens again the next night, and again the next.

One evening I chain the little glass bottle to the bathroom sink. By morning the chain is severed and the bottle hidden in the pocket of my favorite suit. The next night I lock it in a large, bright orange tackle box, only to find said box lying open at the foot of my bed and my cologne set spitefully on top of it.

It isn’t long before the enigmatic presence forgoes its passive-aggressive tantrums, along with all sense of subtlety. Objects slide across the room before my eyes. Doors burst open and slam shut in front of me. Lights flicker like lightning storms while I try to watch the Kanagawas through my window. The wireless router keeps losing power in the middle of my research.

A less dignified man would roll his eyes. Now it’s just being _petty_.

“Do you mind?” I ask the empty room. I don’t get my answer until hours later, when I’m taking my evening shower. The water pressure is predictably horrendous on the fourth floor, but the water is hot and the air inside the cramped bathroom is nearly opaque with steam by the time I finish. I reach for my towel, wrap myself up, and am about to hunt for a set of clean clothes when I notice the mirror.

A single word has been written in the fogged glass.

THIEF

It takes a moment to make sense of the nearly-invisible word though the thick haze. By the time I do, I’ve made another discovery, and I almost let out a cry.

There’s another figure in the mirror, and it’s standing right behind me.

For a moment I’m startled—nay, terrified—but that moment passes with the initial shock. It isn’t as though I was unaware there was a ghost in this building, after all its inconveniences. I’m more intrigued that I can finally see it.

The ghost is that of a man, not quite forty. His face is a flourish of little silver scars on skin the color of mahogany, and his hair is close-cut in an old-fashioned style. His nose looks like it’s been broken more than twice. It should make him look an utter brute, but there’s nothing barbaric about him. That scowl on his face is a look of righteous fury. The ghostly haze around him is less terrifying than ethereal. More than anything, he looks like an avenging angel.

I turn carefully, making sure the figure exists beyond its reflection. Sure enough, I’m not sharing the crowded bathroom with another man; outside of the mirror, I'm alone. I make an educated guess. “We meet at last, Mr. Steel.”

His glare hardens. “Get out.”

“My rent is all paid until next month, I’m afraid. There’s nothing for it. I’m staying.”

He looms even grander and invades my personal space, all crackling fury. “I said blow.”

I hold his gaze. “Gladly, but I would hope you buy me a drink first.”

The change is instantaneous. His shoulders slack. His expression falters. His mouth parts to reveal a chipped tooth. He blinks incredulously.

To his credit, he does recover. “I meant you should beat it.”

“Yours or mine?”

He flusters beautifully for a few moments before he bursts out, “Dammit, I’m giving you the bum’s rush—”

I tilt my head innocently. “Is that what they called it in your day?”

The poor detective walked right into that one.

Perhaps I’ve gone a bit too far, because just like that, the ghost disappears.

I don’t notice any other signs of the supernatural for the rest of the night. In the morning, I’m almost disappointed to find my cologne in the medicine cabinet where I left it.

It takes more than a day before my bedroom door bursts open with a loud crack. The lack of attackers and even more flagrant lack of subtlety tells me my ghost has returned.

“Holding the door for me, Juno? How gentlemanly of you. As soon as I finish with this article, I would be delighted to join you in the bedroom, and we can—”

It slams shut again.

“Well, then. Suit yourself.”

The next time the floor begins to creak menacingly, I flash my most vulpine smile. “Practicing your foxtrot, are you? Perhaps you might give me some pointers sometime.”

Instantly the floor boards go silent.

I suppose I should feel guilty for what equates to sexual harassment, but then, guilt never was one of my vices. Besides, he started it.

As I settle in to bed for the night, I can once again feel his eyes on me from across the room. I don’t bother to hide my grin as I roll over to one side of the bed and pull back the blanket.

“There’s no need to stay all the way over there,” I tell him, patting the space I’ve made. “Come join me if you’re feeling lonely.”

It’s meant as just another bit of light teasing, really. I don’t expect the handsome man to actually materialize at the foot of my bed. But I am unruffled as a point of professional pride.

“Does that mean you’re taking me up on my offer?”

He stares at me quizzically. “You’re actually serious?”

“Did I ever give the impression otherwise?”

“You might say that.” He crosses his arms. “You seen a lot of ghosts?”

“I admit, you are my first. But a man of my profession can’t afford to be inflexible.”

“A man of your profession? You're a criminal.” His face darkens into that seraphic scowl, and a thrill runs down my spine toward more interested parts of my anatomy.

“Moral outrage is a good look on you, Juno.”

The appealing anger shifts into a different kind of indignation. “Would you stop doing that?”

“Stating the obvious? Wasn’t that what you were doing?”

“You think you’re the first crumb who thought he could lampoon me? Your jokes are old news, genius. Go find yourself some new material.”

I tilt my head to one side. “Jokes? The memory escapes me. What were we joking about?”

For all the loud noises and intimidation, the ghost had never actually touched me before that moment. I fully assumed he lacked the ability. The hands wrapping around the front of my pajamas and dragging me to the edge of the bed say otherwise.

I might chalk that up to supernatural strength, but he looks like he doesn’t need it. The dear detective has the build and musculature of a boxer underneath those threadbare clothes, and his knuckles are even more heavily scarred than the rest of him.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he snarls.

Privately I will admit: I am afraid. I assumed his distance meant he couldn’t actually hurt me, beyond a few thrown trinkets. But my hands are on his wrists, and he seems solid enough to be a living man, and perfectly capable of doing me harm. I have three knives and multi-tools hidden on my person, but I suspect they’ll do me little good against this apparition. After all, how does one kill a man who’s already dead?

But I have years of experience under the pressures of interrogation. Knives and guns are all well and good as a last resort, but I have a more effective tool at my disposal.

My expression hasn’t faltered. It is of the utmost importance that he not see me afraid.

“You mean the fact that your disposition tends toward the Uranian?” It’s an old term, nearly archaic. Dare I say it, even poetic. His expression softens by half a degree. “The world has changed rather drastically since your demise, Juno. I see no reason to belittle you for your preferences. Though I must admit I do enjoy seeing you flustered.”

He lets my shirtfront slip from between his fingers, and I fall back onto the mattress.  My hands are still on his wrist, and unwittingly I pull him down after me. He doesn’t fall, but his position is precarious. It’s gratifying to see him unbalanced after what he just did to me. My poor pajamas will never be the same.

“Why, Juno. If that was your idea of foreplay, I think we should start discussing safewords.”

Before this moment, I wasn’t aware ghosts could blush.


	2. Chapter 2

The apparition is leaning against the wall near my bedpost when I awake, scowling at me. It’s rather adorable, especially considering how quickly he fled after the mention of safewords. It seems my ghost has a rather delicate disposition.

“Good morning, detective!” I sit up in bed, leaning eagerly toward him. “You vanished last night without so much as a goodbye, you scoundrel. I was utterly heartbroken.”

Do my eyes deceive me, or is there a soupçon of regret in his face? There is!  “It’s not my fault if you got your hopes up. You’re the one who keeps spinning these romantic delusions for yourself. It’s not like I’m encouraging you.”

“No, you just lurk in my bedroom and ogle me while I shower. Tell me, do you read much modern literature? Because there are a few modern genres that quite neatly encapsulate that behavior.”

He scowls. “Somebody ought to lock you up.”

“As a matter of fact, quite a few of those genres do make creative use of handcuffs. Would you care for recommendations?”

Just like that, the detective vanishes again. Poor thing. I do realize he’s a ghost, but he could at least make the effort not to be quite so transparent.

He remains well out of my way during breakfast and my morning perusal of new information. There’s quite a lot of it. Some crime families try to disguise their presence by scrubbing all records of their existence. The Kanagawas prefer to hide in plain sight. Their media channels and social media networks produce so much content that they crash police servers. But I’m not interested in finding evidence of wrongdoing. I only want that mask.

By midday I’ve settled into a comfortable spot, dividing my attention between hijacked camera feeds and a telescope in my window. In my lap there’s a notebook recording every person who approaches the doors, the precise time of their comings and goings, the clothes they wear, the signs they make, the words they say when I have the fortune to glimpse their faces to lipread. The house is massive, the support staff are many, and in less than an hour a good quarter of the notebook is filled.

I’m so engrossed in my work that I quite nearly jump when I feel a breath on my cheek. “You’re in over your head.”

Instead I merely shiver. “Has anyone told you lately that you have a lovely voice, Juno?” I turn to face him, and I can see the effort he puts into not pulling away. His jaw tightens, and eyes the color of bourbon barrels dart aside for an escape before they fix back on mine.

“I’m delighted to see we’re still on speaking terms,” I continue, before he’s had the chance to fully regain his footing. “I was sure you’d go back to slamming doors and hiding my toiletries.”

I would expect a ghost not to carry a scent, but I can smell sweat and scotch on him as easily as I can feel his breath on my face.

“I’m done kidding around,” he says. “If you don’t make tracks, you’re going to die.”

“As will we all, in time,” I drift off sagely. “Really, though, as tickled as I am by the offer, might I recommend dating for a few weeks before you suggest I stay here for all eternity? This is all so fast.”

“Forever,” he repeats, grimacing. “Don’t you get it, you cheap grafter?”

“Cheap?” Oh, that stings.

“You think I don’t recognize that floorplan? That house you keep making eyes at? You’re going after the Kanagawas.”

“Quite astute, detective,” I mutter. I’m not quite ready to forgive him for that ‘cheap’ comment.

“Whatever it is you think they’ve got, it isn’t worth it. You steal from them—you even let it slip you’re watching them—and they’ll kill you. It doesn’t matter how careful you are. It doesn’t matter how long you’re looking over your shoulder. They’ll find you, and they’ll kill you. So just write this off as a trip for biscuits and _scram_.”

I smile warmly at him, forgiveness granted. “Why, Juno, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want to wind up stuck here with you for the rest of my afterlife.”

“I don’t know, I imagine you’d make for quite interesting company.” I scoot my chair forward, closer to him and further away from my telescope. I glance down. There are indentations in the wood from where another telescope stood, long ago. “But you sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Who do you think killed me?”

“Did you steal something from them, too?” I ask softly.

“Do I look like a thief?” He turns and paces away from me. I rise from my chair and follow after him, too intrigued to focus on my work. “There was a murder in their house. One they couldn’t solve within the family, so they had me look into it. They thought it was going to be one of the rival families, or the police, or a thief or something. They didn’t expect it to be the vic’s daughter.”

I frown. “It sounds like you did them a service.”

“Not the way they saw it. I put one of theirs behind bars, so they put me in the ground.”

He’s stopped walking, but I haven’t.

“My poor, brave detective,” I murmur, raising my hand to brush his scarred cheek. He looks alarmed and confused, as though he’s not sure whether he should run or in which direction he should turn. He compromises by remaining absolutely still, like a rabbit that’s scented a fox.

I lean in until my chest is pressed against his, bracing for the moment when he disappears, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even breathe.

“Come here.” The words are barely audible, but he obeys without a thought. Those whiskey-barrel eyes flutter shut as I close the last millimeters between us. His lips are rough and chapped from cold winters in the city. He moves against me hesitantly, as if he’s unsure of how much he’ll be permitted to take before it’s snatched away from him.

He’s a man too accustomed to being shortchanged and denied. But I am generous.

I kiss him harder, deeper, making sure my intentions are absolutely clear. I tug at his coat and shuck it down his shoulders before it catches on his elbows like loose restraints. I could slip him out of it entirely, but his hands have settled on my hips and he’s determined not to let me go. He knows as well as I do that any interruption will break the spell, and then he’ll vanish again and I’ll be left alone in a truly awkward position, and we can’t have that.

All it takes is a slight shift in my weight, a little bit of a lean, and he’s stumbling backward and pulling me with him. His descent is halted by the ancient desk. Blueprints and printouts crinkle as he steadies himself against the old wood, and his knees part invitingly.

It isn’t an invitation I intend to turn down.

His slacks are already straining. I would unhook those ridiculous buttons, but his arms are wrapped around my waist and he’s crushing me to his chest so tightly that I can barely breathe, much less release him. But I can improvise.

I catch the cool, bristled flesh of his jaw between my teeth and give it a nip. His gasp is deliciously ragged; the thrust that accompanies it is even better.

“Juno,” I whisper, and roll my hips in time with the cadence of his name. Each syllable is paired with a different kind of exquisite friction, like a meal with a fine wine.

What would a ghost taste like? I give him another nip—a mere aperitif. Judging by the sound he makes, the sip has already left him tipsy. It only serves to whet my appetite.

I will have this man. I will taste every inch of him. I will find every way to take him apart, and in a thousand different ways I will watch him come undone.

The thought brings me to the edge. I teeter there for a few bare moments, just on the verge, and then—

He shudders as if electrocuted, and his mouth stretches wide as he chokes on his own orgasm.

In that moment he isn’t pitiful or adorable or even handsome. He is _rapturous_ in his beauty.

I want him in a way that goes beyond greed.  It’s a primal, carnal need. And he is—must be, _will be_ —mine.

I plunge after him, covering that delicious mouth with my own and swallowing air that he doesn’t breathe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Finish the Ghost AU" has been floating at the bottom of my to-do list since November. 
> 
> Then WeAreStarStuff618 kindly asked me to continue it, and it got bumped back up to the top.

I have been with a truly staggering number of men over the years, but Juno Steel is my first post-mortem. It’s only natural, then, that I’m curious about how this whole thing works. Fortunately, one of the advantages of my vocation is that there’s a certain degree of leniency in my schedule: my plans aren’t exactly ruined when I dedicate one day to exploring the mysteries of ghosts in general and Juno Steel in particular.

I pick up certain details as we make our way from the desk to the bedroom. He feels mostly human, but his breath is cold, his skin is cool as porcelain, and the air temperature dips slightly in his presence. I’m hardly complaining—I’ve always been a fond fan of sensation play, and the feel of chilled fingers closing around me sends delightful chills down my spine.

When he comes on my hand, I make a show of bringing my fingers to my lips and licking each one clean. It certainly tastes like what I’m used to, thick and salty-sweet, if perhaps missing a certain nuance to the flavor that other men might get from their diet. His reaction to my performance gives me another bit of information: he has no refractory period.

I make sure to test that _thoroughly_.

“You’re so hot like this, Juno. Can you do it again? God, I want to see you come again.” My chest pressed against his back, my cock sliding between his cheeks, my arms wrapped around his waist and my hands around his member, whispering obscenities into his ear. “I want you to come into my mouth, Juno. I can’t wait to taste you again. I want to choke on you.”  

He obeys eagerly, over and over again. He’s desperate to please, and I can think of _so many_ ways he can please me.

I learn almost incidentally that his clothes have vanished, as has the cum on my chest and arms. I suck hickies into his thighs; they bloom beautifully dark on his mahogany skin, and at first they seem to stay. But by the time I’ve moved on to fucking him into the mattress, the skin there is as unblemished as it was before.

Further experiments seem to explain it: his physical body is purely a manifestation of his will. So long as he remembers his clothes, or his bruises, or the fact that I should rightfully be dripping in his juices, those things exist; the moment his attention is broken, they disappear. He doesn’t suffer from physical exhaustion, but the bruises vanish faster and faster as he succumbs to mental fatigue. He isn’t the only one worn out, and so I wrap my arms around him and bury us both under the covers.

He holds me close and watches me long after he thinks I’ve fallen asleep. It’s well past midnight before he disappears.

* * *

The change in living arrangements hasn’t put a stop to my job, but it certainly has made it more enjoyable.

I still sit in front of the telescope, watching the Kanagawa mansion and recording everything I observe in my little notebook—but that’s with my right hand. My left is otherwise occupied.

Juno sits on the floor beside me, his head resting on his arms, his arms folded over my lap. While I work, my free hand cards absently through his hair, alternating between scratching his scalp and petting him like he’s an overgrown housecat.

I’m amazed that he resisted my advances for as long as he did. Now that he’s given in, it’s obvious just how starved for affection he really is. Not just sex, either, but gentle touches and conversation and casual intimacy.

“You don’t get much company, Juno, do you?” I’ve noticed that I sometimes have to address him directly to remind him I’m actually talking to him and not just myself.

“I get some.”

“Oh?” I jot down a note as a gardener comes in through the side door. “Good conversationalists, I hope?”

“They don’t talk to me much.” He lifts his head just enough to look at me, but not enough to dislodge my hand from his hair. “Most people don’t react to a haunting with a hard-on.”

“No?” I flash a grin. _Don’t pretend that you didn’t enjoy it._ “Their loss.”

But he’s not in the mood to flirt at the moment. “Usually they run screaming. Rita’s alright, though.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get him to tell me about the other people who have stopped screaming long enough to talk to him. There are more than I might have expected, but each one is separated from the others by years, sometimes decades. A woman with strong hands and a sharp wit who left for Europe in nineteen forty to join the resistance. A barista in the seventies who was too caught up in the drama of a haunting to remember to be afraid. That one left when he fell in love with a local billionaire and became the mascot for his company.

“I don’t think he completely forgot about me,” Juno says quietly—like being remembered even for a moment was a distant outlier to an otherwise consistent rule. “Back when the city had this building slated for demolition, his boyfriend bought this building and kept it off the chopping block.”

I frown thoughtfully. “Where would you go if they had demolished this place?”

He shrugs, but he seems tense, suddenly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Haunt whatever they built here next? It’s not like I can go anywhere.”

My attention has left the mansion entirely. “Can’t you?”

“Do you think I would’ve stuck around if I had a choice?” There’s an edge to his voice. “It’s hard enough to get down to the first floor. Hell, I’ve never actually made it past the front sidewalk. It’s convenient, really. As soon as people decide they’ve had enough of me, they can just leave.”

My hand slides from his hair to cradle his face, and I lean down to kiss him.

His shoulders sag, and he fixes me with plaintive stare. There’s a question he wants to ask me. We both know what my answer will be.

But there are other ways to satisfy a lonely spirit.

“Juno,” I murmur, pressing against his shoulders until he starts to tip back, and I sink to my knees beside him. “Juno, shh. It’s alright.”

A little more pressure and he’s lying on the floor, propped up on his elbows just to watch me as I unbutton his slacks.

And then I go down on him until he can’t remember his own name.


	4. Chapter 4

The plan is set, albeit far more slowly than I anticipated. The Kanagawas are constructing a new gallery to house Grim’s Mask, and because few mobsters moonlight as carpenters, they’re hiring construction crews from outside the family for once. All I need to do is incapacitate one of the workers, step in as his replacement, and slip in and out before anyone realizes I don’t know how to use a lathe.

The Kanagawas have likely anticipated this weakness in their security, and so they’re narrowing the window of opportunity: the entire project will take no more than three days. Plenty of time.

I’m going through the personnel files of the vetted crew members, trying to find one I can replace easily. It’ll have to be one who matches my complexion and build fairly well, who hasn’t been working there long enough to make himself memorable.

The task would be far easier if Juno weren’t right behind me. He’s not lounging on my lap anymore—today he’s leaning over me, his stubble tickling my throat as he rubs against me like I’m made of catnip. Every time his lips skim my jugular I have to restrain a sigh.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Juno?” I ask with eroding restraint.

“Have I told you that you smell really—“ He inhales luxuriously, and I swallow. “— _really_ good?”

“Is that why you kept stealing my cologne?”

“Mm-hm.” His hand snakes around my shoulder and slides down my chest. The other takes the tablet out of my hand and sets it on my desk. My fingers trail after it halfheartedly.

“I should be working.”

“You can work later.”

“It’s time—“ I gasp.  _God_ , his _hands_. “Time sensitive.”

“This doesn’t have to take long.”  It doesn’t have to, but it will. He can go for hours if I let him, and I so _badly_ want to let him.

“It—it really is important.” It’s a feeble protest, but it’s still enough to make him pull back with a disappointed sigh.

“Maybe after your big heist, then?” We both know the answer to that. After a job like this, the Kanagawas will be out for blood. I’ll need every spare second to stay ahead of them when they begin their hunt. By all means, I should be spending every available moment preparing beforehand, but how am I supposed to focus on anything when Juno is looking at me like _that_?

I tangle my hand in his hair before he can rise out of my reach, and I pull him back down for a kiss.

* * *

 

I may have created a monster.

I sit down to work, and it’s only a matter of time before Juno is in my lap or between my legs. It isn’t as though I’m about to say no—spectral or not, he’s given me some of the best sex of my life, and I don’t say that lightly—but every distraction cuts deeper into the buffer I’ve arranged for myself. My window of opportunity is creeping closer every hour, and I can feel it looming every time I break from sex long enough to have a coherent thought.

I need to stop procrastinating. I’ve made the decision perhaps a dozen times in the last day, but this time I really mean it.

I’m still coming down from my orgasm when I roll out of bed. I can’t let myself come down entirely—that’ll just give Juno the opportunity to start again, and I have to cut him off before that happens. My feet have barely touched the floor before Juno’s hand slides around my waist, slippery with sweat.

“You’re not leaving already, are you?” he murmurs, meeting my gaze with those _eyes_.

“Just taking a break from our little break,” I assure him. “You’re magnificent, Juno. But I still have preparations to make.”

He rolls closer, pressing his lips to my side. I’d love to let this continue, but I know where it’s going to end, and I really do need to take care of this.

“I’m sorry, love,” I say, moving out of his reach. I should probably take a cold shower before I get started. “I hate to tear myself away, but if we keep going like this, the gallery will be finished before we climb out of bed.”

Something in his expression shifts, just slightly. It looks almost… guilty? Or hopeful? “Would that be so terrible?”

I stop. Frown.

When I look at Juno, I finally see what I’ve been missing.

He’s starved of affection and attention, and that makes him crave it as much as any addict craves his drug of choice. But he isn’t acting like an addict. He’s eager, but there’s nothing desperate or pleading about him. He’s suave. Seductive.

Calculating.

“That…” _I’m an idiot._ “That was part of your plan, wasn’t it?”

He watches me patiently, saying nothing. His expression is unreadable.

“This was all an elaborate distraction. To keep me from going after the Mask.”

His voice is dry, but casual. “Not all that elaborate, really.”

“The Kanagawas killed you. Why would you work for them now?”

“I’m not,” he says evenly. “I already told you: If you go in there, they won’t let you out alive. Best way to keep your skin is to call it quits before you start.”

“Yes. You were certainly forthcoming about that.” I suddenly feel more exposed and vulnerable than I have in days, but I keep my expression casual. “Be that as it may, I came here to steal a Mask, and I’m not leaving without it.” I gather myself together. “In the meantime, though, I intend to shower. Is it asking too much for my materials to still be there by the time I come out?”

He waits until my hand is on the bathroom door before he answers.  “Listen. You don’t have to do this. You know that, right?” His voice drops, barely audible across the room. “You don’t have to go.”

I make sure the door is shut behind me before I let my emotions show on my face. Even then, I try to keep myself under control.

* * *

 

I’ve done all I need to with the telescope, and so I finish the last of my reconnaissance inside a coffee shop a few blocks down, well beyond Juno’s reach.

I need to be away from him right now, at least until I can figure out whether to be hurt or furious or impressed that he could dupe me so completely. I underestimated him. I wanted to see him as an easily manipulated little kitten, and that’s exactly what he let me believe.

He’d make a great con man if he was still alive. All the more reason for me to stay away.

When I do go back to the apartment to sleep and shower, he’s nowhere to be found. No creaking floorboards, no slamming doors, no ominous shadows watching me as I sleep. In the mornings, my cologne is exactly where I left it, but sometimes I swear I can smell it in places it shouldn’t be.

I know he’s still here. He can’t leave. I could probably get him to materialize again if I just called out to him.

I don’t call out to him.

* * *

 

When construction begins on the gallery, I’m ready, and I pile out of the van along with the rest of the vetted crew. My uniform is perfect, my documentation even better, and the man I’m replacing won’t be seen again for another week at least. Plenty of time for me to get the Mask and run.

At least, that was my assumption. But by the first day’s lunch break, something goes sideways.

I’ve spent most of the day trying to look busy while casing the place, looking for openings and vulnerabilities, but the security in this house is obscene. Really, there should be a law. But when we break, the security team starts filtering through the crew. Talking to them.

Not just talking, I realize. Fingerprinting them, and then scanning the prints into a tablet. I know for a fact that the local law enforcement doesn’t have technology that efficient—how on earth did these brutes get their hands on it?

It’s a question I can ponder later, when I have the time. First I have to get out of here.

I focus on mirroring the other workers, then allow myself to disappear among them. I’m just another uniform in the crowd. Nothing worth looking at. Nobody worth noticing.

The moment I’m out of sight, I make a break for the vault where the Mask is being kept. There’s no time for subtlety anymore—I need to grab it and go, and I need to do it now.

But just as I turn the corner, an enormous oaf of a man steps into my line of sight. A Kanagawa: I could spot the resemblance from a mile away. As a matter of fact, I have.

I dart into a side hall, but it’s too late. He might not have seen my face, but he definitely caught sight of my movement, and he’s already reporting them to his superiors via a walkie-talkie. The crackling voice on the other end is loud enough for me to hear as she gives orders to a dozen other guards. They’re forming a net around me. Closing in. In seconds, they’ll have me.

But I’m not common crook. I’ve spent weeks studying the blueprints of this house, and I won’t be caught that easily.

I race down another hallway, wrench open a hidden panel in the wall, and dive feet-first down a chute and into a pile of bedsheets. My landing is as noisy as it is painful, and already members of the support staff come running to investigate. I think they might be expecting a dead body rather than a living one, because there are shocked cries when I take off running past them. Their confusion gives me a head start, but I know it won’t last.

I make a split-second decision: the Mask can wait. I need to get out of here, and fast. I race up a flight of stairs, only to run into one of the guards on his way down. I don’t give him a chance to call me in before I grab him and throw him behind me. I don’t bother looking to see how he landed. If the fall doesn’t kill him, his boss just might.

I dive through the first window I can wrench open and stash my uniform behind a bed of peonies. The Kanagawas will find it there eventually, but it doesn’t matter—I won’t be able to use that disguise again, and for now, my civilian clothes will be less conspicuous.

Every instinct says to run, but that’s a fast track to attracting attention. I force myself to move slowly, casually, like I belong there. It almost works, too. I get as far as the edge of the compound before they come barreling toward me from all sides, baying for blood like hounds on the hunt. I take off running again, tearing down the long drive and into the nearest street. There’s an intersection not too far away, just busy enough to give me a good audience. I measure my paces and throw myself into oncoming traffic.

There’s a squeal of breaks, a sudden metallic crash of crumpling hoods and crunching bumpers, and then all I can hear is the thud of a car hood against my skin.

I think I timed my jump correctly—I don’t think I’ve broken any bones at least—but it’s hard to tell. Right now, everything is pain. The car slams to a halt, and I go rolling off the hood and land in an awful heap in front of the car.

A man leaps out from behind the wheel, white as a sheet and utterly horrified. The woman who rear-ended him is coming out, too. They see me and there are screams. Other cars are slamming on the breaks, other people are getting out of their cars, staring at me, and pulling out their phones.

My pursuers draw back. They aren’t about to murder me in front of so many witnesses—not when they can simply follow me to the hospital and kill me while I’m sedated.

One of the drivers blames the other for hitting me, and the other is having a panic attack. One of the onlookers steps in to intercede, and it unravels into a shouting match. It’s just the kind of distraction I need. While they’re busy making a spectacle of themselves, I scrape myself off the asphalt and slink off.

My skin is raw where I hit the ground, and I’ll be feeling those bruises for weeks, but at least I’m not dead. I limp into the next alley, the sound of my footsteps hidden by the wail of approaching sirens.

First order of business: find a car. Preferably one without an alarm, or one that’s far enough away that stealing it won’t draw the police away from the car accident I just caused. Then I can drive over the nearest state line, check myself into a clinic, and focus on getting well.

The plan is good, if unrefined. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take into account four muscular men with features so similar they can only be family. The Kanagawas are standing at the mouth of the alley, and again I’m reminded of the uniform ferocity of hunting dogs.

There’s only one way for me to run, so I do. It doesn’t matter that a searing pain races through my leg every time I put weight on it. It doesn’t matter that I can’t get a proper lungful of air. It doesn’t matter that I already know they’re going to catch me. I run.

I put one block behind me and then another. These buildings are all old tenements, their inhabitants too wary of the Kanagawas to help a man being chased by four armed mobsters. They duck into their buildings and slam the doors behind them before I can muster the breath to call for help. It doesn’t matter—I don’t have the breath to waste on shouting. I’m losing strength, and they’re gaining.

God, I’m going to die here.

The alley I’m running through is as deserted as all the others. I’m sure of it. But when I glance behind me, there’s a fifth man. He’s standing still, his back turned to me, his stance wide, his arm drawn back for a punch.

I recognize that coat. That hat. Those slacks. They’re the only ones Juno has worn for almost ninety years.

When the first of the mobsters tries to pass him, Juno drives a very corporeal fist into his gut. The mobster drops like a sack of bricks. The other two keep chasing after me, but the fourth rounds on Juno.

I skid to a halt, digging into my back pocket. I don’t have it in me to run anymore. Besides, I like these odds much better.

The closest of the mobsters lunges at me with bare hands. He doesn’t see my knife coming until it’s carved right through his throat. The other one whirls out of my reach before I can do the same to him. The third has drawn a knife on Juno, but he’s no match for Juno’s footwork. A duck, a spin, an uppercut, and another man is down.

Juno turns away from them and marches down the alley toward me, my avenging angel on the warpath—

And then there’s a gunshot.

He staggers. Sways. His left eye is open wide. His right eye is _gone_. More than that, but I can’t see it clearly before he collapses, a spray of red across the alley wall behind him.

The last remaining gangster turns his gun on me, but too slow. I’m on top of him, my steel digging into his skin, howling with rage. With his last ounce of strength he pulls the trigger, but I shove the barrel skyward. The barrel is so hot that it burns, but I barely feel it. I cry out again as I stab him one last time, and the cut is about as effective as my outburst. He’s already dead. His body slides down the alley wall, leaving smear of blood in his wake.

“Anybody else want to try?” I snarl down the alley. I can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in my ears. They killed Juno, damn them all. _They killed Juno_. “Well? Where are the rest of you?”

And then a voice interrupts my tirade.

“You mind keeping it down? I’ve got one hell of a headache.”

I stop short, my breath in my throat.

“Juno?” I’m at his side in an instant. It can’t be, but it is. The spray of blood is gone from the wall. His head is whole. He’s dragging himself up onto his hands and knees. Without thinking, I throw my arms around him. “Juno, you’re—you’re alive!”

He grunts at the sudden touch and pulls away. “Nope. Still dead. But not any deader than I was yesterday.”

Of course. _Of course_ —he’s a ghost. You can’t just kill a ghost. I should have known better, but—but oh god, seeing him fall—

I force my thoughts in a different direction. “But how are you here? I thought you couldn’t get past the front door of the building.”

“I can’t,” he says, and points up. I follow his stare to the fourth row of windows, where a telescope is poking between the parted curtains. “This alley’s a little closer than the front sidewalk. Not by much, but hey, I’m motivated.” He grimaces, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Immediately I’m beside him again. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he says, brushing me off. “Just at my limit. I can’t stay out here much longer. Can you walk on your own?”

Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, I can feel just how bad my leg is. Walking on it won’t be pleasant, but it’s not impossible. I’m about to say as much when he gets in close, sliding my arm over his shoulder.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll help you inside.”

* * *

 

Leaning against him while I walk is awkward, but it’s easier than limping on my own. We stick close to the building and take a back door inside, but even then, Juno grunts and swears like he’s fighting through a migraine. The sound of it must have alerted the landlady, because she pokes her head out of her door.

“I thought I heard gunshots,” she says, in the tone of someone who hears them on a fairly regular basis. “You okay? Do you need ta go to the hospital?”

I attempt to be charming. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather avoid it.”

“Alright. Lemme know if you change your mind.” She glances at the door. “Are they still out there? Whoever they are?”

“Yeah,” Juno grunts. “Four bodies. At least two of them dead. You think you can take care of them for me?”

“No problem.” I should be concerned that this doesn’t seem to bother her all that much, but at the moment all my spare faculties are dedicated to keeping upright. Thank God this building has an elevator—I don’t think I could handle climbing four flights of stairs.

Juno seems to have an easier time once we’re back on the fourth floor. He practically carries me the last few yards to the bed, and immediately starts unbuttoning my shirt.

“Why, Juno,” I say, trying for sultry. “As much as I’d love to thank you properly—”

“You can quit playing around already,” he snaps. “I’m not convinced you don’t need a hospital right now. You got hit by a goddamn _car_ , you idiot.”

I frown. “How did you know about that?”

In place of an answer, he peels my shirt off. The sleeves and one shoulder are bloody and torn from my meeting with the pavement.

“That’s going to need treatment,” he says, and rises.

“Juno—”

“There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom,” he explains needlessly. While he’s gone, I glance through the open door into the next room. Before I left, I pushed the chair in under the desk, but it’s been pulled out again and repositioned right by the window, next to the telescope.

“You were watching me, weren’t you?” I ask when he comes in from the bathroom with the oversized kit in his hands. “This whole time.”

He doesn’t meet my eyes, focusing instead on pulling a pair of tweezers out of the kit. “Hold still. There’s gravel in your shoulder.”

 “I knew you cared.”

“And I knew you didn’t. Maybe that makes us even.”

“Oh, don’t be like that—ah!” I don’t know what he just pulled out of me, but it _hurts_.

“Did you think I was pulling your leg?” he asks. “I said _hold still_.”

I clench my fists in the sheets to keep from moving while he works. “I don’t know why you think I don’t care.”

“For god’s sake—would you cut it out already? It’s over. You don’t have to pretend anymore.” I want to turn to look at him, but he keeps me still with a hand on my neck. “I know this whole goddamn thing is just a game to you. I knew that when I got involved. But right now I’m not in the mood to play.”

I try to turn again when he puts the tweezers down, but he won’t let me. Instead he starts patting down the wounds with a wet washcloth. The cold is soothing against the ragged skin, and I’m intimately aware that he’s being gentle—more gentle than he has to be.

Because he’s not wrong. When this all started, it was just in good fun. I don’t know when it stopped being a game.

“I’m not playing,” I say softly.

“Come on. Do you really expect me to believe that? Now?” As much as he’s trying to sound tough, he’s almost pleading. “You never even told me your name.”

That catches me by surprise. I must have introduced myself at some point—but I haven’t, have I? Juno was more than vocal during sex. He was not too proud to beg, but his pleas were usually addressed to more heavenly authorities. I always thought it was appropriate for someone like him, angelic as he was.

It didn’t even occur to me that he didn’t have another name to call.

He still won’t let me turn, so I lay my hand over the one that’s holding my neck.

“It’s Peter,” I say softly. I’ve been using aliases for so long that it feels strange to say it aloud. “Peter Nureyev.”

He doesn’t say anything to that at first, only finishes bandaging my shoulder and arms, and then moves onto my leg.

When he starts working my pants down my hips, I decide to keep the commentary to myself. A wasted opportunity it may be, but it doesn’t seem right anymore. He still won’t look me in the eyes. He won’t look at me at all, in fact, except to treat my injuries.

He palpitates every inch of my leg. I’m still tender in places, but the pain of his touch is outweighed by the relief of his cool skin against mine.

“There’s some good news, at least,” he says at last. “It looks like it’s just a sprain. Keep it wrapped and stay off it for a few days, and you’ll be fine.”

He wraps a compression bandage around my knee, his brow is furrowed in concentration. I find my gaze drawn to the right eye. There was a hole there big enough to see through, less than an hour ago.

I know it’s silly—he can hardly die again—but I remember the chill I felt when I watched him fall. I was so sure he was gone forever, and that thought cut me to the core.

I’m a fool and I know it. But that doesn’t stop me from reaching out to him and tipping his face toward mine.

We’ve shared plenty of kisses in the past few weeks—rough and claiming, drawn-out and lazy, hungry and burning with lust—but this is like none of those. It’s tender. It’s sincere.

He kisses me back, and I know: I may be a fool, but at least I'm not the only one. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the first fics I wrote for this fandom, and it's also one of my favorite, but I could never figure out the ending. I had a few ideas, but none of them felt right.
> 
> Then my friend came over and helped me work through them. I wrote this last chapter in a little more than one night.

I spend the next several days sleeping off my injuries. Juno stays at my side, helping me walk when I have to, bringing me things when I need them, and mostly just holding me.

He pretends that everything is fine, and I pretend to believe him. Too often, though, I wake up to find him gone. When he comes back, he’s winded and exhausted, but he doesn’t say a thing. He doesn’t do anything but crawl into bed and wrap his arms around me.

I don’t need him to tell me what’s going on. I already know.

I wasn’t careful enough with my getaway. The Kanagawas have tracked me to this building. They’ve probably tried to get inside on more than a few occasions, but Juno keeps driving them off.

The food he brings me is from the landlady’s kitchen, which she was kind enough to drop it off at the doorstep right before she left. Juno insists she’s off taking care of her sick aunt out of town, that she’ll be back any day now, but the building’s few other tenants have made similar getaways. I should probably do the same—but that would mean leaving Juno behind. And once I’m gone, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come back. I don’t know how long it’ll take the rest of the building’s occupants to come back, either, or if they even will. After all, there aren’t many people willing to risk staying in a place that’s been targeted by a mob family. How long will it be before somebody else moves into this room?

How long will Juno be trapped in this building by himself?

“Doesn’t matter,” is always Juno’s answer. “You need to get out of here. I can wait.”

“I can’t just leave you here.”

“Sure you can. Your leg’s good enough to walk on. Just grab the first car you see and go. Simple as that.” He peers through the blinds at the alley below. Judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t like what he sees. “The sooner that happens, the better.”

“There has to be some way to get you out.”

“Don’t you think I haven’t tried?”

“Something you haven’t tried, then.”

He strides back to me with a grating sigh. “Like what? Séances? Rituals? Before Alessandra went off to war, she brought in priests and pastors from every denomination she could think of to try and cleanse this place. Julian pulled in pagans and every New Age scrap of occultism he could think of. I’ve been salted and saged and exorcised, and nothing helps. That’s just how it is. Hell, Rita even tried to get me to ‘sever my ties to this earthly plane’—I’m probably lucky that one didn’t work out.”

“Not fond of the harp?” I ask, trying for a moment of levity. It doesn’t work: Juno’s face is even more grim than before.

“Harps I don’t have a problem with, but smoke and brimstone do a real number on my lungs.” And he believes it, too: so badly that I can almost smell smoke on him.

I pull him away from the window and back to me, leaning in close so I take up his full field of vision. “I don’t believe you’re meant for that.”

“What do you know?” he mutters, but there’s no spite in it; just exhaustion. “Peter, please. You were always going to leave eventually. Trust me, you don’t want to be stuck here forever.”

“Juno…” A part of me wants to tell him that he’s wrong—that spending an eternity with him is hardly my idea of hell—but I know it’s the wrong thing to say right now. Forever is a long time, after all, and there’s so much of the world I haven’t seen. I can’t think of anything to say that might persuade him, so I do the only thing I can think of: I kiss him.

It won’t fix anything. It won’t stop the Kanagawas from circling like vultures, and it won’t get him out of this building with me, but at least it can give us both something less unpleasant to think about for a few moments. The hellfire smell grows stronger, so I grab him closer and kiss him harder, trying to push out the thoughts of hellfire and damnation, to convince him that he’s so much _better_ than that.  He melts into me, eager and pliant in my arms, but I can still smell the smoke curling around him.

And then it hits me: this isn’t some manifestation of his will. It’s _actual_ smoke.

I pull away to say something, but the first gasp for breath gives me nothing but a lungful of smoke. I fall back, coughing violently.  It’s getting thicker now, pouring through the crack under the door.

“Juno—“

“I see it,” he says. “Give me a second.” In the next moment he vanishes. When he reappears beside me, he’s coughing from the memory of smoke. “The first floor looks like Happy Hour for Molotov cocktails. You’re gonna need to use the fire escape.”

I rush for the door into the main hallway, but the moment I touch it, I pull my hand back with a gasp. The doorknob is as hot as a stovetop. The smoke pouring through is thick and black, and it’s filling the room. Much longer and I won’t be able to breathe at all. I hurry to the window, throwing it open, and suck in a lungful of clean air. To my right, a few doors down the hall, hangs the fire escape. It isn’t all that far, really.

“We have another problem,” I tell Juno, pointing down. It’s four stories to the concrete below. Even if the fall doesn’t kill me, I won’t be good for much once I’m on the ground—certainly not enough to fight off the gangsters that are waiting at the corners of the alley. Before I can point them out properly, a burst of gunfire sprays the wall around the windowsill.

“Goddammit,” he mutters. “I can get rid of them. Right now let’s just focus on getting you out in one piece.”

“There’s a bit of a ledge on the windowsill. If you can stop them from shooting at me, I might be able to climb it.”

He stares at me, horrified. “Are you serious? A few days ago you couldn’t walk on that leg, and now you want to scale a building?”

“I’m motivated.”

He scowls and disappears. This time he walks back, handing me the fire extinguisher from underneath the kitchen sink. “Maybe try that first.”

“But the Kanagawas—“

“I’ll get rid of them,” he says. “Just focus on getting down.” He grabs me and kisses me one last time, and then he disappears.

I yank the blanket off the bed and wrap it around my hands before I try the door again. It takes some fumbling to open the doorknob, but finally I get it open.

For half an instant I think I can make it—then the oxygen from the open window hits the flames, and they billow out to meet me. I leap back, scorched by the wall of pure heat.

The hallway won’t work—and now that the door’s open, the flames are spreading fast. I race back to the window, but more gunfire peppers the wall.

I might just die here after all.

No. No, there’s got to be another way. It can’t end like this.

I spray the spreading flames with the fire extinguisher, but I only manage to push it back to the door before the dry foam runs out. The flames will be back within minutes, but at least gives me a little time to think.

There’s something my old mentor used to say—one of his many First Rules of Thieving: to the master thief, doors are but suggestions.

If the windows and doors are both blocked, then I’ll make my own. Even if the fire extinguisher can’t put out all these flames, it still makes one hell of a battering ram.

Like most residential buildings, the walls between the rooms are thin, just drywall and plaster over a wooden frame. It’s usually politeness and inconvenience that keeps people from simply smashing their way through them, but this is no time to be polite. With the first impact of the base of the fire extinguisher, the drywall breaks apart. A second impact widens the hole, and a third more. The wallpaper on the other side of the wall gives me slightly more trouble, but only just. I climb through the hole I’ve made into the darkened room on the other side—

And immediately I run into another wall. But that can’t be right. I should be in the office next door. The space I’m in is only a few feet wide, only barely long enough to hold me. A closet, perhaps? The drywall is chalky and unpainted when touch it, and I can’t find the door. Maybe it’s to the side?

But when I reach to the left, I feel something that isn’t a wall.

It’s fabric, barely covering something dry and papery and hard.

I stumble away from it, nearly toppling back through the hole I’ve made. The fire is already spreading inside. The papers and blueprints are blackened and turning to ash. The ancient desk will take longer to burn. Smoke is pouring into this little space—if I don’t get out now, I’ll asphyxiate.

No time to find another way out. I grab the fire extinguisher and smash my way through the next wall.

I should keep moving. Turning back will accomplish nothing—it’ll just be a waste of precious time.

I look anyway.

Through the hole seeps just enough light that I can see it: a desiccated corpse, barely a pile of bones held together by sinew and leathery skin and the remains of those clothes.

The fire extinguisher falls from my hands. I know those clothes. The hat. The shirt. The coat. Those slacks. They’re lost in the shadows, but I could tell you the exact pattern of those socks and the size and make of those shoes.

No wonder he couldn’t leave. His body’s been here this whole time.

I need to do—I need to do _something_. Take Juno’s body and get it out of here, get it to safety, get it properly buried, something. I can’t just leave him here like this. But I can’t bring myself to touch the body, either. If I touch it, that will somehow make it real. It’ll somehow make it his. Never mind that I already had my hands on it when I was groping around for a door—it’s different now that I know.

I stare, powerless, as the room fills with smoke.

“Peter!”

I jump, startled out of my stupor. For a blank moment I look at the skull, like it could have said my name. But then Juno calls for me again, and I can hear him clearly. “Peter!”

“Over here, Juno!” I call to him, but it’s lost to a fit of coughing. There’s too much smoke. Instead I reach through the hole in the wall, trying to draw his eyes to me. The heat on my hand is intense, but it works. In an instant he materializes beside me.

“There you are,” he says. “Come on, I took care of the goons downstairs. The fire escape should be the in the next apartment over.”

“Juno, wait.” I grab him by the wrist, suddenly all too aware that the shirt he’s wearing is just a memory of the one hidden behind the wall. “There’s something you need to see.”

“Peter, there’s no—“ I know the exact moment his eyes fall on the body. His lips part. His eyes widen. He looks so very small and vulnerable.  And then the moment passes, and he turns away. “There’s no time for that. We need to get you out of here.”

“But Juno—“

“You’re more important.” He picks up the fire extinguisher and starts toward the far wall. “We’ll deal with it later. After you’re safe.”  He has raw strength that I’ve never had, lungs that are unbothered by the smoke, and the kind of determination that can move mountains. Within seconds, there’s another hole large enough for me to climb through.

The apartment we left behind is ablaze. Tongues of flame are reaching through the series of holes I made, licking at drywall and lumber and a cotton shirt that’s nearly a century old.

“Keep moving!” Juno grabs me by the shoulders and shepherds me toward the next hole. “It’s just through that window. You’re almost there!”

I stumble through the hole. The fire escape is just on the other side of the far window, the metal railing sharply contrasted against bright sunlight, but my watering eyes are drawn to another point of light.

The fire’s reached Juno’s body.

His back is to the blaze, but I can see it in his eyes: He can feel it happening. He flashes a sad, resigned smile.

“Juno!” I reach back through to him, and he takes my hand.

His skin has always felt so cold. Now it almost hurts to touch him. The heat is unbearable; the thought of letting go is worse.

“I love you, Peter Nureyev." His voice is soft, but impossibly clear over the roaring fire. "You’re the greatest thing that’s—”

And then he’s gone. Behind him, the fire bursts through the false wall. There’s nothing left of his body.

There’s nothing left of _him_.

For a long moment I stare at the spot where he stood, rapidly filling with ash and smoke. 

A part of me wants to lie down and let the fire take me. Another part is listening to an endless refrain of Juno’s voice: _Keep moving. You’re almost there_.

I turn away and walk slowly to the window, unlatching it and pulling it open with wooden motions.

I keep moving because Juno told me to. I keep going because there’s no reason to stay.

* * *

I steal the first car I see. I drive until I can’t anymore, and then I pull over on the side of the road and sleep in the car until morning. When I wake up, I snatch a man’s wallet out of his back pocket and buy myself new clothes, a jar of burn cream, and a proper meal. Using his credentials, I rent a room at the first motel that doesn’t ask for my ID.

It’s all mechanical, driven more by habit and muscle memory than by conscious thought. I don’t want to think right now. I don’t want to do anything but rest.

I don’t know how long I spend sleeping it off. A few hours, maybe. A few days. When I wake up, I roll over and squeeze my eyes shut again. I’ll leave when the money runs out, or when the man I pickpocketed cancels his card. Whichever comes first. I just need some time, that’s all. Some time.

* * *

Chapped lips press against my forehead, soft and gentle. My eyes flutter open, and he pulls back, just enough that I can see him clearly.

“Juno,” I whisper.

This must be a dream, but I don’t challenge it. It’s a good dream.

His back is to the window, and the sliver of sunlight illuminates him from behind like a halo. His smile is gentle and warm.

“Glad to see you made it out okay,” he says.

“I’d be okay if I made it out with you.” I sit up, trying to face him. “I’m sorry, Juno. I’m so sorry. I should have found a way to get you out of there. I should have—“

“It’s okay, Peter. It needed to happen.” His hand folds around mine. His skin is cool to the touch. “There’s nothing tying me to that place anymore. I’m free to go.”

It feels like the bed’s been pulled out from underneath me, and for a moment I wish I felt as numb as I did when I walked into this damn motel.

After the better part of a century, he can finally take his rest. I should be happy for him. I should be delighted that he can be at peace. Instead all I can feel is my heart breaking all over again.

I’m typically the one disappearing, not the one left behind.

He deserves a proper goodbye—some dramatic verse about endless galaxies, or about heroes etched in the stars as constellations, or at least an assurance that I’ll never forget him—but my mind is blank. I squeeze his hand desperately.

“I don’t want to let you go,” I croak.

And he gives me an odd look. “I sure as hell hope not.”

Wait. “What?”

“What?” He quirks an eyebrow. “I said I can move on from that place. I never said I was moving on in general. There’s still something tying me to this earthly realm, after all.” He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. “As long as you’ve got your hooks in me, I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a fairly good idea of how I wanted the story to go, it was always just a matter of who "lived" and who "died". Possibilities included:
> 
>   * Juno's body is destroyed in the fire and he moves on to the afterlife
>   * Peter is killed in the fire, and he and Juno move on to the afterlife together
>   * The Kanagawas kill Peter without arson, and he spends his afterlife in the apartment with Juno
>   * Peter inexplicably gains time travel powers, goes back in time to when Juno was alive, saves him, brings him back to the present, and they go on grand adventures together while both of them are alive. See Meg Cabot's _Mediator_ series (2001) for further explanation.
> 



End file.
